The air was a thick, chilling emulsion of mist, clinging to the skeletal branches of the ancient forest. Towering pines, black and monstrous against the luminescence of a celestial sphere, formed a ragged, impenetrable shroud. Tonight, the Full Moon hung like a sickly pearl, yet its light was absorbed, swallowed by the unnatural density of the woods, save for a solitary, flickering illumination deep within the gloom.
Beneath this scant, struggling light, the figures moved.
They were not merely dancing; they were engaged in a spasmodic, trance-like ritual. Their bodies, draped in tattered fabrics, swayed in uncanny synchronization, responding not to music, but to some unheard, primal cadence. Hands waved in serpentine, undulating motions, their movements mirroring the organic, unseen currents of the wind and the earth. They revolved, slowly at first, then with increasing, dizzying momentum, tracing a precise circular pattern upon the damp ground.
Again. Again. Again. Again. Again...
The relentless repetition drove them toward a state of complete, fevered exhaustion.
In the absolute center of their hypnotic vortex stood the effigy. It was a grotesque, meticulously assembled construct, a sickening monument of biological sculpture. Human extremities—hands, legs, eyes, tongues, flaps of skin—were crudely yet deliberately stitched together, forming a repulsive, asymmetrical canvas. Crowning this disturbing assemblage was the undeniable, horned head of a goat, its empty sockets gazing out over the frantic worshipers.
(The Author's Note): We seek to impose our dogmas upon the weak, for their compliance validates the shaky foundations of our own conviction.
SEOUL, 2011
The scene abruptly cleaved, depositing the narrative into the fluorescent austerity of Seoul National University in the year 2011.
Enter Jonas Lockwood.
He stood before the amphitheater of expectant undergraduates, a figure of striking, almost theatrical contrast. His hair was the pale, sun-bleached shade of flax, his eyes an improbable, piercing shade of blue, framed by fair, almost translucent skin. At nearly six feet, he possessed an undeniable, magnetic charisma that emanated from his polished external shell. He was, to all outward appearances, the very image of the esteemed visiting professor.
Yet, behind the impeccable facade, his soul was a pulverized ruin.
His life was a stark, sterile equation: Wake. Work. Return. Sleep. This cycle of mechanical existence repeated itself with a paralyzing, oppressive monotony.
Again. Again. Again. Again. Again...
He performed his duties, perpetually awaiting the unknown anomaly that might finally shatter the dreadful inertia of his days. His eyes, though brilliant in color, were devoid of the animating spark; they were deep, vacant abysses underscored by profound, bruised circles that spoke volumes of sleepless nights and encroaching illness.
"Good morning," Jonas's voice was smooth, carrying the low, authoritative inflection of an academic. "I am Jonas Lockwood, and I shall be your instructor for theoretical physics this semester."
It was at that precise, mundane moment, as the final syllable of the introduction faded, that the world imploded.
A student in the third row, a young woman previously occupied with adjusting her glasses, suddenly sprang to her feet. Without a sound, she lashed out, slamming her heavy textbook into the temple of the young man beside her. The sound was a wet, sickening thud.
The reaction was instantaneous and horrifyingly viral. The entire lecture hall erupted in a spontaneous, brutal frenzy. Students, moments ago placid and attentive, launched themselves at one another with pure, desperate malice. This was no mere scuffle; it was an exercise in absolute, blood-drenched savagery. Pens were instantly transformed into makeshift shivs, heavy water bottles became bludgeons, and desks were overturned to be used as battering rams. The students attacked with a terrifying, unified ferocity, their faces contorted into masks of bloodthirsty delirium.
Jonas Lockwood did not move. He simply stood at the podium, his striking blue eyes fixed upon the unfolding carnage—a silent observer to the sudden, monstrous rupture of reality. He watched them fight.